Indraprastha gleamed like the midday sun. Wide roads bore the weight of kings. The sounds of conch shells, temples, and laughter filled its air. Justice was swift, and prosperity flowed like monsoon rivers. The city built from ash had become a symbol—not just of survival, but of righteous rule.
Yudhishthira sat on the throne—not with pride, but with stillness. The crown felt less like victory and more like duty. And yet, in the quiet moments, a question stirred in him: Is this the extent of dharma? Was ruling a half-kingdom, however pure, all he was meant to achieve?
Sage Narada arrived one morning, unannounced, as sages often did. His veena hung from his shoulder, but his eyes were sharp.
He spoke to Yudhishthira in a voice that was both song and command: "You have built a city worthy of the gods. But are you king of men… or king of kings?"
The words hung heavy.
Narada told him of the Rajasuya Yajna—the imperial sacrifice. Only one who could conquer or receive submission from every other king could perform it. It was not merely ritual. It was declaration.
Yudhishthira's heart hesitated. "Is such ambition not pride?"
Narada smiled. "It is not pride to accept your destiny. Dharma shines brightest when power bows before it."
But kings do not rise alone.
Before any decision could be made, Yudhishthira turned to Krishna.
He was already there, as if he had heard the thought before it was spoken. He wore no crown, but the way people moved around him—the way even silence waited when he breathed—was authority itself.
Yudhishthira asked him plainly, "Should I attempt the Rajasuya?"
Krishna replied without smile or softness: "Only if you are ready to make enemies of those who already hate you."
The hall fell silent.
Then Krishna said something only Yudhishthira could understand fully.
"Before you raise your hand to crown yourself,
you must cut off the head of the snake that lies coiled across the land.
That serpent is Jarāsandha."
The name struck the court like thunder.
Jarāsandha—the king of Magadha. Fierce, undefeated, and cruel. Born of two halves joined by magic, his strength was monstrous. He had imprisoned eighty-six kings, keeping them like livestock in dungeons, preparing to sacrifice them for a ritual that would make him immortal.
"Until he is defeated," Krishna said, "you cannot call yourself emperor. Even your enemies will laugh. And you cannot face him with an army."
Yudhishthira frowned. "Then how?"
"With three warriors," Krishna replied. "Myself. Bhima. And Arjuna. We will go as Brahmanas… and challenge him to duel."
Bhima smiled, finally. "That is a war I have longed for."
Yudhishthira still hesitated. "What if he refuses?"
"He won't," said Krishna. "He has too much pride to walk away from a fight."
The plan was made.
The road to Rajasuya would not begin with celebration, but with blood.
And far away in Magadha, a king whose birth defied death waited in ignorance.
Soon, he would face Dharma, Strength, and Divine Will—disguised as wanderers.
And none of them would turn back.